


Fresh Bruises

by Simplistic_Apricity



Series: Fading Scars [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Could Be Canon, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Harry Potter Needs a Hug, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Post-Canon, Post-War, Probably not though, harry potter needs a nap, it could almost? be canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:34:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25759657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Simplistic_Apricity/pseuds/Simplistic_Apricity
Summary: When Harry wakes after the battle, he finds that Voldemort's Killing Curse left more of a lasting impression than he had initially realized. But he's fine now! He had only died for what, three minutes? Maybe five, at most. Not really a big deal, honestly.Ron and Hermione disagree....Prequel to Fading Scars. Can be read with it (in any order), or alone!
Relationships: Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley
Series: Fading Scars [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1870114
Comments: 2
Kudos: 73





	Fresh Bruises

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the second fic! I was really happy with the reception to the first one, so I decided to provide a little context for how I thought things might've gone right after the battle. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy! Please rate/comment if you like it; or if you don't, for that matter. I really like getting feedback, either way! I wrote this in an afternoon and since proofreading is hard I just...didn’t.

Harry woke in the way that one tends to after being asleep for a very long time: with absolutely no idea of where he was or how long he’d been there. There was no gradual fading to consciousness or lingering dream on the edge of his mind. Instead, he woke on his stomach to someone grabbing his left shoulder, which led to three thoughts in quick succession.

  1. An unknown person was right next to his unconscious body
  2. There was an extraordinary pain flaming through his chest
  3. His wand was still gripped in his right hand



Conclusion: he had been rendered unconscious by a Death Eater and was about to be murdered.

Half a moment later as the assailant was just beginning to say something (a curse maybe?), Harry had rolled off the bed toward them, breaking the grip on arm and stabbing his wand under their chin, a stupefy already beginning to roll off his tongue before he blurrily was able to take in a mop of red hair high above him.

“Blimey, Harry, it’s only me,” the tall ginger blob told him. Harry almost dropped his wand.

“Ron, I—God I’m sorry,” he stuttered, shoving his glasses onto his face. “I didn’t realize—I thought you were cursing me,” he tried to explain. As if spurred on by the thought, his chest gave another throb and he hissed through clenched teeth. Ron frowned in concern.

“What’s wrong?” 

“Pain in my chest,” Harry grunted out. Ron’s eyes widened. 

_“ _Ar_ e _ you really cursed?”

“I don’t know,” Harry gasped. “I—shit it feels like I’m being stabbed.” He was in Gryffindor tower, of course. He had come here after the battle. He had been tired, and so he slept. Late morning sunlight was streaming in through the arched windows, so he must've come to get him after a few hours of rest. Ron had apparently managed to get washed up in that time, too, and was looking cleaner than he had since they left Shell Cottage. At least he’d managed to get all the grime from the Chamber of Secrets off himself before he came to wake him. Harry could see that he, on the contrary, was still _very_ much wearing the dust, dirt, sweat, and miscellaneous sludge from the battle on his person. He stumbled back to sit on the edge of the four poster bed and pressed his hands to his sternum, before drawing them back with a little groan he wasn’t able to hold back. Nope, nope, bad idea. Don’t touch. 

“We’ve got to get you to Madam Pomfrey. Things have finally slowed down a bit so she can check you out right away.” Ron gave a little grin. “Plus, it’s not like anyone can really turn you down, anyway,” he added.

“I’m sure there’s people who need more help than me right now,” Harry sighed with his face scrunched up in pain. 

“Mate, it’s been two days,” Ron told him like this was something he should have known. “All the serious cases have already been moved to St. Mungo’s.” Harry’s eyes shot open. 

“You let me sleep for two days?” he almost yelled. “I thought I’d been her for five hours!” Ron just shrugged.

“It looked like you needed it. Besides, that’s why I’m here now, isn’t it? Mum was worried that you’d starve up here.” Ron frowned a bit again. “But come on, stop being a baby. I’m pretty sure she’d kill us both if we let the ‘savior of the wizarding world’ die of something stupid.” 

“Not a baby,” Harry muttered as he let Ron pull him to his feet and sling his arm over his shoulder. The stairs to get back to the Hospital Wing were particularly hellish, as every step jarred the pain in his chest a bit more. He hadn’t even looked under his shirt to see if it was something physical. What if he had just gotten really bruised or something? Broken ribs? It’s not like he’d had a relaxing day last night (or rather, two nights ago). Maybe with the adrenaline of the evening, he just hadn’t noticed something injure him. He’d fallen down, been caught in explosions, hit by rubble and spells, and—

Oh.

_Oh no._

A tight knot of guilt and anxiety bubbled into his chest, joining the burning. His tired mind was finally catching up and remembering the events of the last day, full force.

“Ron, I think I’m fine,” Harry protested. “Really, I don’t think I need to see anyone. Just kind of sore from sitting on my arse for two days straight.” Ron gave him a sideways look and then looked forward again.

“Yeah, we’re still going,” he insisted.

“No, really,” he argued rather weakly, given that it was difficult to catch his breath.

Evidently, the Hospital Wing had either fared absurdly well, or had been repaired while he slept because it was in surprisingly good condition. Barely a bed out of place. When last he had seen Madam Pomfrey and the other volunteer medics, they were triaging their patients in the Great Hall. But since it seemed like the most severe cases had already been transferred out, the only people still remaining were a few broken bones and lingering curses that needed time. Harry winced as she approached him with narrowed eyes.

“Mr. Potter,” she announced. “I was astonished to hear that _you_ were not among those that needed my attention after the battle. How have you managed to find yourself here now?” Ron and Harry shared a quick look. 

“Well, you see—” Ron began. It was at that moment that the door banged open once again.

“Oh, I _knew_ it,” Hermione cried in exasperation. “When you didn’t come down, your mum sent me after you.” She pointed at Ron accusingly. “And when you weren’t there I just _knew—”_

“Hey, it’s not like I did anything!” Ron protested. “He was already—”

“Could we get a little more privacy?” Harry interrupted, his voice tense. Pomfrey looked first between Ron and Hermione, then about the room, at the couple pairs of prying eyes that had made their way to Harry.

“Follow me,” she motioned. She led them away from the beds entirely, and into a private examination room near her office that Harry had honestly never noticed, despite his extensive time spent there. She motioned for him to sit on the cot and stood with arms crossed, eyeing Ron, still standing to Harry’s left.

“Thank you for your help, Mr. Weasley, Ms. Granger, but seeing as Harry here has requested privacy—”

“No, they’re alright,” Harry sighed. “Could they stay?” He looked nervously between them. “You see I—well—” 

“Harry thinks he’s been cursed,” Ron interjected. “He said he feels like he’s getting stabbed.”

“You’ve been cursed?” Hermione asked intensely. “When? By who?”

“No, Ron, I think I—” Harry tried to explain.

“Alright, Mr. Potter. Shirt off, then,” Pomfrey commanded. “Let’s get a look.” Harry knew he was probably starting to look a bit cornered, now.

“Do I have to?” he asked, weakly. _Nonono he wasn’t ready for this conversation yet_. Her answering stare was enough to tell him. He took a deep breath, and with a painful stretch, managed to pull off the t-shirt in one swoop. He held it in front of his chest for a moment before letting it drop, and tried to ignore Ron and Hermione’s shocked gasps before he looked down.

At the top of his breastbone, there was still the faded oval from the locket burned pink into his skin, and directly over his heart laid the effect of Voldemort’s final killing curse. A wide and branching scar shaped like a crackling burst of lightning was carved into his flesh so deeply that it made parts of his chest warp and press inward. Although its focal point rested on his chest, a few angry red tendrils wrapped around the sides of his ribcage and up his arm. The spaces between the branches were filled with mottled bruising, staining him like a watercolor painting, and making the scar stand out even more vividly.He stared at it in a morbid fascination until Pomfrey’s voice cut into his observation.

“I can say with confidence that it is, in fact, a curse scar,” she began carefully. “Do you know what caused it, Mr. Potter?” Harry stayed still for a moment, still looking down, lightly touching the edge of one of the arcs with a fingertip, before carefully nodding.

“I, um,” he began. “You all know that before the end Voldemort and I, we had a...meeting,” he worded carefully. 

“Still very irresponsible, by the way.”

“Is now really the time, Hermione?” Ron shot back. Harry sighed.

“He um, cursed me, I think.”

“Harry, I’m pretty sure you’d remember,” Ron told him, still staring at his chest. “I mean...bloody hell just _look—”_

“Language, Mr. Weasley.”

“Sorry, Madam Pomfrey.”

“I _know_ he did,” Harry conceded, grumbling. “He hit me with...well...it was the Killing Curse,” he finished rather quietly. The room stilled into awkward silence. “Well don’t everyone speak up at once.”

“He _WHAT?”_ Ron yelled. “Are you telling me that you’re the luckiest bastard alive—”

“ _Language!_ ”

“Sorry, miss. The luckiest _bloke_ alive, and he hit you with that and couldn’t kill you _four times—”_

“Four?” Hermione asked. “Hasn’t it been two?”

“No, four,” Ron insisted, counting on his fingers. “When he was a baby, after the Tournament fourth year, in the Forbidden Forest _apparently,_ and right at the end when you, well…” Ron made a motion that could loosely be interpreted as chopping someone’s head off. “All aimed right for you, all bounced right back. _Two_ killed Y— _Voldemort_ instead! That has to be a record.”

“Yeah, but I had the record already, so not really an issue, is it?” Harry asked, confused.

“Shut up, you know what I mean.”

“Ron, I don’t think all of those really count. I mean, Priori Incantatem means the spell wasn’t even _close_ to Harry, and in the battle Harry had the Elder wand so it never even took effect properly,” Hermione explained. “Only two really rebounded. Still a record, though,” Hermione told Harry in an aside.

“Besides,” Harry insisted further. “this one didn’t exactly rebound properly either…” Harry realized his mistake when Madam Pomfrey’s eyes narrowed in suspicion and then widened in surprise very quickly.

“Erm, I mean it, well...I just uh…” Harry’s mind, slow from sleep and the persistent pain in his ribs couldn’t think of anything close to a reasonable excuse. He had to say something before Hermione put two and two together and completely freaked everybody out. _Come on, Potter,_ he whispered internally. _You’ve done much more stressful things than this. You broke into Gringotts not three days ago. You defeated a dark wizard. Just say something that makes sense, and downplays the whole thing. Easy._ He opened his mouth.

“I was only dead for, what, five minutes? At most. Not really a big deal.” _Nope, that was bad. Never speak again._ A beat of silence.

 _“WHAT?”_ Ron and Hermione roared in unison.

“You didn’t tell us you _died—_ ” Ron began.

“Do you mean when Hagrid carried you back up here—” Hermione continued

“And you didn’t come here sooner?” Pomfrey scolded.

“You didn’t tell me and Hermione you _died?_ We thought you were faking! How were we—”

“No wonder Voldemort was so confident!”

“You could have lasting issues—”

“You just _went to bed_ instead of telling us you _died—”_

“I mean, a one-out-of-two record isn’t _that_ bad—” Harry protested. The shouting increased in volume. “Look! This is why I didn’t say anything! I’m fine, aren’t I?”

“Mate, you’ve got a crater in your chest,” Ron pointed out.

“But other than that!”

“Mr. Potter, given the circumstances, I doubt there’s much for you to do except rest,” Pomfrey informed him. “This is a rather...unusual situation. As it stands...well, you _are_ the only known person to have dealt with this type of curse scar before, so you’d know better than I. Even if it is a bit more...severe. I can give you a potion for the pain, but I doubt it will do much for you.”

“Fantastic,” Harry muttered, pulling his grimy shirt over his head with a wince. She was right though: he _was_ the leading expert on lasting marks left by Voldemort. The pain in his chest was starting to resemble the familiar burning in his scar a bit more as time went on, in fact. He did his best to push it to the back of his mind. 

“Please let me know if anything changes. Now, I have other patients to attend to,” she insisted, pressing the potion into his hand as they left. About a second after they were shuffled out, Hermione jabbed a finger in his direction.

 _“You,_ are going to take a _very_ long shower, because you are disgusting—”  
“Wow, good morning to you too—”

“And then we are going to have an _extensive_ discussion about what you haven’t told me and Ron,” she finished. She stared at him intensely for a few seconds. Harry was unsure of whether she was going to punch him or not, when she pulled him fiercely by the arm and down into a tight hug. Harry let out a little _oof_ of pain at the sudden movement.

“Don’t do that to me ever again,” she whispered a little shakily. Harry gave a nervous chuckle.

“Not planning to,” he answered quietly. Hermione took a deep breath and pushed him away, back towards Ron.

“Meet me by the kitchens when you’re done. Molly’s worried that you’re starving,” she told them. She briskly walked away, leaving Ron and Harry staring at each other with wide eyes.

“She gets so scary sometimes,” Ron muttered.

“I know what you mean,” Harry agreed. “Come on, help me to the prefect’s bathroom. I think I deserve luxury.”

“Sure you do,” Ron snorted. “You should be cavorting in high society, with your charms.”

“Hey, I died for you. You can’t talk to me like that,” Harry insisted, feigning offense.

“Wow, can’t wait to hear that for the rest of my life,” Ron said, rolling his eyes. “Let’s get your disgusting self to the baths.” Harry and Ron limped together in relative silence for a few minutes, Harry’s guilt roiling in his stomach.

“Hey, Ron?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you...I mean…” Harry searched for the right words. “I’m not sure I can talk about it yet. The forest, I mean.” Ron waited before speaking.

“Yeah, sure, if that’s what you want,” he said, sounding a bit confused.

“It’s just...Hermione,” Harry explained.

“Oh, she’ll understand,” Ron waved him off. “She was just doing her whole scary thing because she was upset she didn’t realize something was up sooner. She won’t mind.” Harry let out the breath he didn’t know he had been holding.

“Ok, great,” he sighed. “It was just…” He searched for the words to describe the experience. At the time, the terror of the night and the urgency to keep moving and complete his mission had been all consuming. Now that there was nothing left to do...there was nothing left to keep the horror of the situation from consuming him, either. The moment between Voldemort’s Killing Curse flying and his awakening in King’s Cross was...nothing. It was somehow instantaneous and everlasting _nothing._ It was the disconnect from his loved ones, both living and dead—trapped between worlds. What if he hadn’t been able to make it to King’s Cross? What if his soul was corrupted by being bound to a horcrux, and it was no longer something worthy of afterlife? 

It wasn’t the pain or his soul’s departure from the living world that frightened him...it was the idea that had things gone differently, he might have ceased to be entirely. And the fact that he had been reduced to an empty body by another person with nothing but two words? That terrified him like nothing else. But these were thoughts to be shared in close quarters, maybe drunk and surrounded by firelight, not while covered in the remnants of battle and wandering the halls. 

“It wasn’t fun,” he finished rather lamely, instead. “And now that I can think about it...it all just sort of hit me all at once, you know?”

“Look, then when we meet Hermione, all we’ll do is drink butterbeer and stuff ourselves with whatever the kitchens have until we make ourselves sick,” Ron shrugged. “And when you want to talk about it, well...Hermione and I’ll still be there.” Harry grinned a bit to himself at that.

“How are the house elves, anyway?” Harry asked curiously. “They’ve already got the kitchens up and running?” 

“Oh yeah,” Ron said confidently. “Cleaning and repairs are their specialty, you know? Took them all of half an hour. Hopefully Hermione isn’t giving them a hard time for it.” Harry couldn’t help but chuckle, and wince at the sting the new scar left in its wake. 

“Thanks, Ron.”

“Anytime, Harry.”


End file.
